


Alone time

by robokittens



Category: Silicon Valley (TV)
Genre: Life is hard, Masturbation, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, sorry richard, spoiler alert no actual threesome occurs in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 03:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: This is creepy. This is definitely the creepiest — well, definitely top five creepiest things he's ever masturbated thinking about.





	Alone time

**Author's Note:**

> BIG THANKS to [reserve](http://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve) and especially to [mitochondriencocktail](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mitochondriencocktail/pseuds/mitochondriencocktail) for talking me through this one.
> 
> dear richard hendricks: i'm sorry. xoxo, b

8:30 is really, really early to be going to bed but Richard has had a long day already, and he's stressed out, and also — fuck it, he just wants to jerk off. That's honestly it. He's feeling particularly sexually frustrated and —

It's just. It's annoying, is all it is. Gilfoyle had retreated to his own room earlier on a call with Tara, even Dinesh had found some girl on the internet to ineptly flirt with, Erlich — is Erlich. And Jared is. On a date.

It's really weird, honestly. Richard doesn't get it, Does Not Get It. Jared is nice and everything, but it's not like he's _hot_. Which isn't to say that Richard is objectively more attractive or anything — he's well aware of the flaws in his own appearance, thank you very much: not on the tall end, definitely not athletic of build, stupid hair, and a frankly kind of weird nose. That's not even getting into his mannerisms, which, honestly, he's well aware that he's basically one giant tic. Or his personality. Or … basically, he's not exactly a catch.

But still, you'd think. If Jared can get laid, like, regularly. Maybe Richard could manage it on occasion.

And the woman he's out with tonight — he'd shown Richard a picture on his phone, saying something demure about not kissing and telling but how it was too soon for that anyway. But this is a third date, apparently, so Richard is — probably it won't be too soon. Anyway. She's hot, is the point, all long brown hair and big green eyes behind stylish glasses and a big grin with perfect teeth. Richard would totally go for her, if he was the kind of guy to go after girls. Which he's. Not, particularly, because he's also awkward and unable to talk to other human beings, in addition to his myriad other flaws.

But at least he can jerk off. He can do that, at least, has it down to fucking science.

He stays dressed: boxers and a t-shirt, because the lock on his door only works about three quarters of the time and this house doesn't prioritize knocking, and also because his well-honed masturbation habits haven't changed much since he was a teenager. 

Plus there's something — kind of alluring, about touching himself through his clothes. About reaching up his own shirt to drag his fingers through his (sparse, gingery, also not very attractive) chest hair, to pinch at his own nipples. Like he's getting to second base with himself, or something.

He's getting hard in his boxers as he finally runs his fingertips lightly over himself, barely enough pressure to even feel it. It's not — he's going to draw it out tonight, he's pretty sure. Make himself feel real good. He brought some lube (bought expressly for this purpose) and a box of tissues up onto the bed with him, and he's ready to go. 

He strokes himself through his underwear, alternating between those light, teasing touches and a firmer pressure. He can feel himself filling out, and it's — an interesting sensation, one he never quite tires of. He's wondered, maybe more than once, about what it would feel like to hold someone else's dick, to feel it come to life in his hands. Pretty amazing, probably. Pretty gay, but — amazing.

He's not a grower _or_ a shower, honestly: barely bigger hard than he is soft, and not huge to begin with, although no one's complained. Not that there have been a lot of potential complainants. Complainers? Hopefully no one's taking his dick to court, but —

His eyes squeeze shut as he presses the heel of his palm against his dick. It's just enough pressure to make him hiss a little bit into the still air of his bedroom; he's had long years of practice at staying quiet, but sometimes he can't help himself.

It's. Seriously, it's unfair. Long years of practice, an expert at getting himself off, and Jared just — swans around on dates with pretty ladies. And God, she's pretty. He's fairly sure Jared had told him her name but there's no way he remembers it now, just the way her hair shone in the flash of the camera, the long line of her neck as she tilted her head to one side, that easy grin. The barest hint of cleavage peeking out over the neckline of her v-neck shirt.

Third date. Does that make her Jared's girlfriend? Is he — oh, God — jerking off thinking about Jared's girlfriend?

He shouldn't be. Shouldn't be thinking about her at all, much less while he's palming himself through his boxers, humping up against his own hand with little twitches of his hips.

God, though, for it to be someone else's hand. He can barely even imagine it — what's-her-face here in this bed with him, her hand wrapped around his dick. Her hands are small, probably, small and smooth and practiced as her fingers curl around his dick. As they — are probably curled around Jared's dick right now.

He groans at that, half arousal and half dismay. Maybe Jared's hung, maybe that's his secret; maybe the local girls all gossip about his big dick. Maybe people — women — are lining up to get a piece of that. Maybe whoever-she-is can barely wrap those delicate fingers around him, her fingertips not even touching as she strokes him to hardness, as she holds him in place while she touches her lipsticked mouth to the tip of his dick.

This is creepy. This is definitely the creepiest — well, definitely top five creepiest things he's ever masturbated thinking about. But he can't help it now that he's started, can't help himself from thinking about the way her pretty lips would wrap around Jared, the way her pretty throat would swallow him deep.

His fingers curl around himself, gripping himself tighter through his underwear. Slowly, slowly he makes himself let go; slowly he pushes his boxers down just far enough to get his dick out. It springs to attention, flushed and leaking; he hadn't realized quite how hard he was but now he can feel the precome beading as he thumbs over the head of his dick.

He trails his fingertips down his length, stroking gently over the sensitive skin, feeling himself twitch. He's gonna — yeah. Gonna take his time. Gonna let his fingers slide down the underside of his dick, his precome barely enough to ease the friction. He lets go of himself in order to uncap the lube, drizzling a little of it on his fingers. The cool liquid dripping down his hand makes him shiver, but the way it feels on his fingers is nothing compared to the way it feels on his dick. He inhales sharply. His head thumps back against the pillows.

He closes his eyes again. He's not going to think about what's-her-name, not going to think about _Jared_. Because Jared is his friend, and his colleague, and this is — creepy, and wrong, and frankly a little invasive. Even if Jared never knows about it, which he definitely never will.

But it's just so easy. So easy to picture the fall of that glossy hair like a curtain around Jared's dick as she sucks him in deeper and then deeper. So easy to see those manicured nails pressing little half-moons into the pale skin of Jared's thigh. So easy to imagine Jared's own neatly trimmed nails threading through her hair, pulling her in tighter.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

His hips buck up traitorously, his dick sliding through his grip.

He tries to pull up something, _anything_ from his goddamn spank bank: the threesome porn he'd watched last week, the girl he'd had a crush on freshman year of college (aged up appropriately, because ew), literally any generic set of boobs. _Anything_.

But it's Jared's girlfriend-or-whatever who keeps coming to mind. Jared's hands in her hair, his long fingers twisting in the strands. Would he tug on it? Is he the hair-pulling type? The hand of Richard's that's not around his dick moves up to his own hair, tangling his fingers in the curls there, tugging just slightly. He has no idea if she'd be into it, but he knows very well that he is.

Jared has … nice hands. Richard can imagine them wrapping around his skull, fingers threading through his hair. Pulling. He tightens his own fingers until the pressure on his scalp is almost painful. The hand on his dick has slid into slow motion.

He wonders, distantly, if he could get off this way: pulling his own hair, touching his nipples. Barely grazing a hand over his dick now and then. Teasing himself — tormenting, almost. 

It's with a low groan that he lets go of his dick entirely, lube-slicked hand trailing up the line of hair on his stomach. He shoves up his t-shirt again, fingers sliding over a nipple and then doubling back to pinch it sharply. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, bites his own lip to keep quiet. It's too bad, almost, that he bites his nails down so short, but … the girl, whoever-she-is, her nails are probably nice and long, they could dig in just right. Maybe her teeth. 

He pictures Jared's smile, clean and white and even, and his eyes blink open. The ceiling swims into focus and he stares up at it. Jared's _girlfriend_ 's smile, clean and white and even. Not — not Jared's. 

Christ. Okay, he shouldn't be thinking about — about either of them. 

He closes his eyes and mentally pulls up the threesome porn again, a blonde and a redhead and a generic looking white dude, none of them looking like _her_ and none of them looking like _Jared_ , Jesus. He'd watched the redhead fingering the blonde for probably, like, seven entire minutes — porn editing is super weird, but he hadn't minded, watching her slick fingers slide in and out of the other girl's pussy.

His own slick fingers wrap back around his dick, tormenting forgotten in a quest to get off as quickly as possible, to get all this weird creepy shit out of his mind.

But it's like it's too late, like he's opened the fucking floodgates: he can picture what's-her-name sucking at him like the blonde in the threesome porn, her hair the wrong color but her lips just the right shade as they wrap around his dick. He can picture Jared at the foot of the bed, leaning in to lick at her as she licks at Richard, can all but hear the muffled noises she's making as Jared eats her out.

Because. Jared is probably _amazing_ at giving head. He's so — methodical, and so nice and so giving, and so _experienced_ and there's. No way. No way he's not incredible at it. 

Richard's hand on his dick speeds up as he wonders — would Jared be good at going down on a guy, too? Does he suck dick like he eats pussy? Would he — would he — would he, oh God, would he go down on _Richard_? Richard's dick twitches in his hand, pulses, and his balls feel so heavy. He's — gonna come any second now, he's pretty sure of it, if he doesn't stop, and he doesn't stop. 

He squeezes the base of his dick just hard enough, just long enough, to keep himself in check, but it's — it's not gonna work, it's not gonna work, and he's coming. Coming with one hand cupped over the head of his dick, the other still tangled in his own hair, and the image of Jared's red, red mouth seared into the inside of his eyelids.

His orgasm fades too quickly: he comes down hard, crashing fast. He's still breathing hard, but it's no longer from the exertion of sex — if you can call what Richard just did sex. Which. Personally. He's not inclined to do. 

If he'd had an actual hot threesome in real life — Jesus. That's a thing he'll never actually get to do, just cross it off the list preemptively, especially not with some super hot chick and — 

Jared. He just. Jerked off thinking about Jared, jerked off and came _hard_ thinking about Jared. That's fucked up; that's new levels of fucked up. That's — bad, and wrong, and a few kinds of immoral. And now he's going to have to talk to Jared tomorrow and Jared's mouth will be moving and he'll be thinking about Jared's mouth.

This is bad. This is several kinds of bad.

He groans, a sound of despair rather than arousal. His come is dripping slowly down his dick, leaking from the hand he still has cupped around it, and he grabs hurriedly at his box of tissues. He wipes himself up, wipes himself clean — not that he feels clean, doesn't feel clean at _all_ — and drops the tissues over the side of his bed onto the floor. He'll get them later; it's fine.

He should — get up. No, he should go to sleep. No, he should get up; go take a shower maybe. Wash off the jizz and the sweat and the fact that he just got off thinking about Jared's mouth. 

Oh, God. He's fucked. He's so fucked.

It's fine. He was thinking about — whoever, about the _girl_. The woman, that Jared's out with. He wasn't thinking about — it's fine. It's fine.

He pulls his pillow out from under his head and jams it down over his face, instead. Maybe he'll just smother himself to death rather than ever look Jared in the eye again. Because he — jerked off thinking about Jared's date. And that's. Unethical, and wrong, and. Does he need to apologize to Jared for that? Probably not. Probably that would just cause more problems.

Behind his shut eyes, he can still picture Jared's mouth. _Fuck_.

He flings the pillow off his face, climbs down off the bed, finds the tissues where they'd landed and tosses them in the trash, instead. He's going to — yeah, take a shower. That's the best course of action.

He makes it to the bathroom without seeing anyone, which is. Good. That's a good start to his plan of Washing Off This Shame. He locks the door, starts the water and pisses while it's heating up, strips down quickly and climbs over the rim of the tub. 

The heat of the water is — good. Punishing, a little, which is nice; he needs it. Deserves it. He should feel red and raw, should hurt a little after what he's done. After — 

No, no. He can't start thinking about it again.

_Fuck_.

He leans his forehead against the wall, the tile a cool contrast to the water pounding down on him. He grabs his washcloth and the soap and scrubs himself clean, not being particularly gentle on his still-sensitive dick. He takes a deep breath. He feels … almost better.

It's a few more minutes of letting the hot water run over him before he steps out of the shower. He towels off and shrugs back into his boxers — his dirty boxers, but it's okay; he's going to shower again in the morning anyway. And he didn't actually come _in_ them this time. 

He runs the towel haphazardly over his hair but it doesn't really matter — again, shower in the morning; plus, his hair is basically a mess no matter what he does to it. And he's just going to bed; who is he impressing?

So. Naturally. The moment he steps out of the bathroom is the moment Jared walks in the door. With what's-her-face in tow.

"Oh!" Richard says, intelligently. 

"Richard!" Jared says brightly. He seems not to notice that Richard is damp and clad only in his underwear, towel draped over his shoulders. "Have you met Ashley?"

"Um," Richard says. He shuffles his legs closed, clutches his elbows with his hands, like that will somehow cover his relative nudity. "Hey." He gives an awkward little wave — he can _tell_ it's awkward — before moving his hand back to his arm; the motion causes his towel to slip and he grabs at it desperately.

"Hi!" Ashley says. She's looking at him. Looking right at him, clearly pretending not to notice — anything that's happening, here.

"That's," Richard says. "I gotta." He gestures vaguely in the direction of his room.

Ashley smiles at him. One of her front teeth is actually a little crooked — he couldn't see it in the photo, but it's. Endearing, actually, and vaguely reassuring somehow. Like — like even Jared's perfect date is only human. Like Jared doesn't demand peak physical perfection from his partners, like — 

"I gotta," Richard says again. He feels sick. He feels very sick, very abruptly, very much like he's going to projectile vomit onto Ashley if he doesn't get back into the bathroom ASAP. 

The door slams shut behind him so hard it bounces open again, and Richard is dimly aware that Ashley can hear him retching into the toilet. She'll never have a threesome with him now.

The thought brings with it a fresh wave of shame and he gags again. Not — not that a threesome was ever actually on the table, that's just Richard's — his overactive, sex-deprived imagination. He squeezes his eyes shut, which is just as well; he's not particularly interested in seeing the inside of the toilet bowl. 

"Richard?" Jared's voice carries quietly in from the hall. "Are you alright?" 

Richard sits back on his heels, drags the back of his hand across his mouth. "Uh," he calls back after a moment. "Yeah. I — I'm fine."

"Do you need help?" 

Does he ever.

"No! You and Ashley go do, uh. Whatever you were. Going to do. I'm fine!"

_Whatever you were going to do_? Fuck, Richard knows it, they're going to fuck; Jared is going to hang a tie on the knob to the garage door and he and Ashley with her stylish glasses and her almost-perfect teeth are going to. Have sex. Right here, right in the house, right where anyone could _hear_ them. Right where anyone could just walk in and — 

His stomach seizes again.

"If you're sure," Jared says, quiet and concerned. He can hear Ashley say something, too, but he can't make out her words; he hears Jared reply, a low murmur of conversation. She laughs. She has a very nice laugh.

"I'll be in the garage if you need me," Jared says, and Richard can hear Ashley laugh again.

If — fuck. If he needs Jared? If he — 

He closes his eyes. He can practically feel Jared's breath on his dick.

"I'll be fine," he tells the toilet. He can hear Jared's footsteps, Ashley's footsteps, retreating. "I'm fine."

He sits up, digs the heels of his hands into his eyelids. He's fine. He's _fine_.

Gingerly, he stands up; he picks up his towel from where it had fallen onto the bathroom floor. He wraps it back around his shoulders, pulling it tight, and takes a few hesitant steps out of the bathroom and into the hall. It's deserted, fortunately; he can hear the sounds of Gilfoyle and Dinesh bickering in the other room, but — the hallway is safe. He makes it back to his room in record time.

He shuts the door behind himself and leans against it, his knees suddenly weak. The clock swims into focus: 9:27. It hasn't even been an hour since he — 

It's pretty dark in his room, now, but he doesn't flip on the light; he navigates through touch, and memory, and what light comes through his windows. He pulls out a fresh t-shirt and slips it over his head, the cool fabric a welcome relief against his feverish skin. He climbs the ladder up into bed.

There's no way he can hear any noises coming from the garage — Jared is tactful enough to keep fairly quiet, surely, and also the layout of the house just doesn't permit it. They would have to be. Really loud. Like, really loud.

Still. In the dark, it seems almost like he can hear them: faint moans, high breathy noises. It's like the world's worst lullaby as he drifts off toward sleep.

He can feel himself starting to get hard again and he pointedly ignores it, rolls over onto his stomach, which is — a mistake, maybe, because now there's the friction of the mattress against his dick. But that's. Okay. He can ignore it, like he can ignore the phantom noises from the garage.

He should get up. He should go get some work done, distract himself, sublimate all his frustration and his arousal and his (ugh) emotions into something actually productive.

Or he can lay here. He can keep his eyes shut tight, keep his hands carefully away from his dick. And he can listen.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm also [on tumblr](http://robokittens.tumblr.com)!


End file.
